


The King's Ward

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Happy Ending, King Stannis, Light Angst, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sansa is Lysa's daughter, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-27 05:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: When widower King Stannis finds a trembling Sansa Arryn waiting for him in his bedchambers whilst visiting the Eyrie, having been ordered by her scheming mother to attempt to trap him into marriage, he has no choice but to remove her from such dishonourable company and take her to King's Landing to become a ward of the crown.





	The King's Ward

**Author's Note:**

> background to this AU:  
> \- Sansa is the daughter of Lysa and Jon Arryn, and is about fourteen when this story starts (but there's no underage in this fic).  
> \- Robert died soon after his coronation and without marrying, and Stannis became king. Shireen still exists in this AU and Selyse died of a fever a few moons ago.  
> \- The Greyjoy Rebellion hasn't happened yet.
> 
> and if you want visuals for this fic I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/167113593132/when-widower-king-stannis-baratheon-finds-a)

 

 

Stannis dislikes Jon Arryn for the way he still sounds awestruck when he speaks of Robert, the way he never fails to bring up his valour in battle, his might. Mighty he may have been on the battlefield, but it is Stannis who has ruled this country for the past fifteen years, who has worked hard to repair the rifts his brother had caused in the aftermath of the rebellion; and to heal some of the wounds made by the Mad King when he forsake his kingly vows of protection. It is a thankless task being king, but Stannis does not do it for thanks, he does it for duty.

And it is duty that finds him in Lord Arryn's solar, listening to the man ramble on, and waving away the constant offer of wine in lieu of lemon water. His droning voice is enough to give Stannis a headache, what need he for wine as well.

At least Lady Lysa is not present - for if her husband is tiresome, then she is even more so. He cannot help but think that there is something mad about her, her crazed laugh, her deep frowns, the quicksilver way her moods change, her overfamiliarity with her singers and with Petyr Baelish, Lord Arryn's odious money man. Lysa dotes on Robert, her son and heir, with such feverish devotion it makes Stannis uncomfortable, and her frequent comments about the beauty of her daughter Sansa are too much. Sansa, Stannis has been pleased to note, is clearly embarrassed by her mother's behaviour, and does not seem to have inherited any of her wildness. She has been polite and courteous as befitting her station and when he has seen her around the Eyrie she has been working on her embroidery and playing her harp, teaching her brother his lessons, or leaving the sept after extensive prayers.

When the hour turns, Stannis takes his leave of a drooping Lord Arryn and returns to the chambers prepared for him. He enters, shuts the door, and allows himself to sigh wearily before movement in the corner of his eye has him unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the intruder.

It is Sansa Arryn who has trespassed into his room, and she sits in his very bed, wearing only a thin silken robe around her shoulders, flame-coloured hair falling down to her waist.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, his sword still pointed at the girl.

"Your Grace," she says, teeth chattering with fear, and clutching the bedclothes to her half-naked form, "my mother-"

"What of her?"

"She said that I should– she bade me hide thus in your rooms."

"For what purpose?" he asks, even though he knows just what scheme Lysa must have concocted. Ever since he became a widower some moons ago, the vultures have been lurking to try and trap him into marriage,

Sansa swallows and shifts on the bed and the robe she wears slips down over one pale shoulder.

"The Lady Lysa oversteps herself," he says, sheathing his sword. "She races past the bounds of any known propriety. She thought that I would be forced to marry you, that you would be ruined. A foolish, dangerous gamble. What if I had used you ill and then discarded you?"

The girl pulls her robe tightly around her. He knows that he is frightening her but he is so angry with her, with her mother, for this scheme. Angry that a maiden such as her - young, gentle, and from what he has seen far more proper than her abhorrent mother - would be put forward for such a plot.

"Your mother is a foolish woman," he says. "And I suppose she has her own guards stationed outside to catch you leaving?"

"Yes, Your Grace," she says, with tears falling down her pale cheeks and yet her jaw is now firm, her countenance brave, despite his ire.

"Did she teach you whore's tricks too?"

"No," she says and shakes her head back and forth until it looks as if she might injure herself with the motion.

"I believe you. You look as seductive as a fawn," he snorts.

She closes her eyes painfully.

"I shall not harm you, my lady, I swear it," he says, even though this surely goes without saying.

She nods.

"Yet I cannot let you remain here in the Eyrie. Who knows what foolish plots your mother might conjure next on your behalf? I saw the way Baelish leered over you at the feast. Has he approached you?"

She nods again. He wants to tell her to speak up but her courage seems to have abandoned her.

"And what did your mother say when you told her this? Out with it, girl."

"That I must not steal him from her."

He scoffs again. "A schemer, a whoremonger, and an adulteress too."

"Please don't hurt her," she begs, "please, she only-"

"I am not a man who _hurts_ women. I will investigate matters, thanks to your testimony, and if I believe Lysa to be a danger to her husband and herself, just as she is a danger to you, she will join the silent sisters. She must not be allowed to taint her son and heir. And you shall come to King's Landing as my ward," he finds himself saying, "a match for you shall not be arranged until you are _of age_."

The tears have started to flow down her cheeks again. He has no practise at soothing tearful maidens, Shireen is an uncommonly even-keeled child.

"How did you get inside these rooms?" he asks.

"There is a secret doorway," she says, breath hitching.

"Of course there is," he grits out. "Show it to me."

She gets out of his bed gingerly, her bare feet white against the stone floor, the robe barely longer than her knees. He would give her the blanket from his bed but if she was found with it in her rooms she would not be able to explain its providence. She tiptoes over to one of the tapestries and strains to lift its heavy weight.

He strides over to help her and she jerks away when he comes near. He does not bother to remind her that he shall not hurt her, he is not in the habit of repeating himself.

A slim doorway is revealed which she unlocks with shaking hands, her hair now behind her like a curtain of silk in the gloom.

"Where does it lead?" he asks.

"To the corridor near my rooms."

"Good," he nods. "Make your way to your rooms and I shall station members of my guard outside your door and take Lysa to be questioned."

She turns back and looks at him at the entrance to the passageway.

"I do not plan to hurt her," he finds himself repeating and then, angry with himself for being swayed by the anxious look of a girl, he watches Sansa disappear into the dark with a candle, and then closes and locks the door, letting the tapestry drop with a snap.

It will be many hours now before he can lay down and sleep, he thinks wearily.

But if he had thought to discover evidence of plotting in the rooms of Lysa and her lowly lover, he admits that he is shocked to find poison itself, to find crooked books belonging to Baelish, and to hear Lysa's screaming accusations about a miscarried child, about her plans, about the whole sordid mess of it all. Lord Arryn is beside himself with shock, though how he has not known that his wife is making a cuckold of him under his very roof shows how poor his judgement is, or at least how it might be swayed by a woman's wiles, like most men. Baelish is arrested and placed in the sky cells and Lysa is locked in a small chamber, dosed with sweetsleep by a maester so that she cannot injure herself. She will be transported to the silent sisters as soon as possible, for it is clear that the woman is mad and that Baelish was the true mastermind of the plot.

Stannis leaves a contrite, and clear-headed, Jon Arryn in the Eyrie, who swears that his only purpose now is to raise his son and heir well, to remove any taints his mother might left in him; and takes the lady Sansa with him back to court.

He supposes that he might have fostered the girl elsewhere, with her cousins in the north perhaps, but he does not trust her not to be used by some scheme again, to have another take advantage of her obvious trusting and gentle manner; Westeros has never been kind to beautiful maidens, whether noble or not. She might make a good companion for Shireen, he thinks, as he glances over at the carriage where she resides during their journey, even though she is some years older than his daughter. She is obviously not a practised dissembler like the other women at court.

 

*

 

A part of Sansa had always wished to see the Red Keep, the great halls and rooms, the ladies in their fine dresses, the spectacle and pomp; but not in this manner, not dragged from the only home she had known, with her mother disgraced and sent away, as a ward to the crown and under the king's protection.

The king is very brusque in his manner, and she had found his countenance frightening when he had turned his sword to her in his chambers. She still flushes to think of the sight she must have made, in the slatternous robe her mother had forced her into, sitting amongst the king's very bed linens. He was correct in his assertion that another man might have mistreated her, might have used her and discarded her, and she is thankful that the king is as honourable as her mother sneered he was.

Did her mother think she could have seduced such a man? That he would have been overcome with lust upon seeing her thus? Sansa has not even kissed a man before, even though Petyr Baelish had tried to a few weeks ago, before she turned her face from him and left the darkened solar which he had drawn her into on false pretences. Her mother had been furious when she told her about it, had slapped her so hard she fell to the ground sobbing.

Sansa had not wanted to lay in wait for the king in his chambers but her mother had threatened her with worse, had said that she would drag her in there naked if she did not go of her own accord, that she would marry her off to a man older than her father, that she would hate Sansa forever if she did not do as she was told.

Ever since Sansa has grown older, more like a woman, her mother has been increasingly angry with her - jealous, Sansa sometimes thinks, even though this cannot be true. Sansa is but a girl, with barely any womanly curves, with thin hips. Men do not look at her the way her mother fears they do, it is her mother's tight dresses their eyes are drawn to.

She is being dishonourable to her mother's memory to think of her thus, she knows, and she takes out her embroidery as the carriage rocks its way towards King's Landing, hoping that if she keeps her fingers busy her mind will be busy also. Hoping that her new home will be good to her, that she is not exchanging one treacherous situation for another.

 

*

 

His Lord Hand is obviously bemused by his returning from the Eyrie with the lady Sansa, and Stannis explains his reasoning to him, even though he knows this is not necessary.

"It is good you discovered Lysa's treachery before she could do anyone harm, Your Grace," Davos remarks as they sit in his solar that first evening back, having made his report to Stannis of everything that had occurred whilst the king had been away on his short trip north.

"Except her daughter, she did Lady Sansa harm."

"Did she?" Davos asks, the look on his face unclear.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, crossing his arms.

"She will be a good companion for Shireen," Davos suggests.

"I am aware of that."

"Do you have a match in mind for her?"

"For whom?"

"For lady Sansa."

"No," he shakes his head, "she is far too young to be betrothed."

Davos hums and stands up to retrieve a stack of correspondence which he places before Stannis.

"Your own marriage proposals, Your Grace," he says, tapping the top letter. "Though not as bald-faced as that, they are couched in soft terms of course, _inquiries_ ," he says. "The small council will no doubt be discussing this when you meet with them tomorrow."

Stannis grits his teeth. "My wife is only a few moons cold in her grave," he says. "I shall hear no talk of marriage yet. I have an heir, I do not need to race into an unwise match."

"As you say," his Lord Hand says, dipping his head.

Stannis wakes early the next morning, the halls of the keep humming with life and chatter.

As wearisome as the company was at the Eyrie, at least there were less people there to bother him, less frivolous demands that take away from his time ruling. The court had been quieter over the years than he remembers it being during Aerys reign, once the people saw that Stannis was not interested in a decadent court, with wasting money on frivolities and raucous behaviour, but now that Selyse was gone the noble families had come trickling back, eager to present their daughters in front of him, salivating over the possibility of having a queen on the throne.

Selyse had not been a great queen, but she was not a poor one either, she kept a small court, was pious and dutiful, and uninterested in scheming. Her only great fault was only giving him one child but this was not something she could control.

It would be dutiful of him to marry and have more children, heirs, but to do so now would be rash, he must consider the noble families and their daughter's suits carefully.

He finds it infuriating how the daughters will curtsey so low to him, flutter their eyes and tug down the necklines of their gowns, act as if he is handsome when it is clear to all that he is not. The whole pageantry of it is tiresome. He will need a wife, he will marry one of them; what needs must all this ridiculous mummery. He will make a decision based on the good of the realm and shall hardly be swayed by a pair of teats or a false smile. They would do better to be plain and courteous, to speak clearly and honestly.

 

*

 

Sansa had taken the king at his word when he said she was to be a ward of the crown but others seem to have different ideas about her position at court. She is not a fool, she hears the whispers spoken about her and her maidservants report back the rest, they say that she is the king's betrothed in all but name, that he fell in love with her on first sight at the Eyrie, a too-young maiden, and waits for her to be old enough to marry. That this is why he will hear no other marriage proposals, why she is guarded so closely and given an honoured place in his household and rooms in Maegor's Holdfast.

I am just a motherless girl, she wants to tell them, not some grand seductress. The king does not want her like that, he does not desire her, he is only doing his duty since he believes himself directly responsible for her well-being after finding her in his rooms. He does not invite her into his solar late at night, he does not stand too close to her or leer at her, or speak to her in a manner that would belie any interest. He is as brusque with her as he is with everyone else, as uninterested in idle chatter.

He is a good king, she sees this. Her mother had mocked him. Stannis the dour, she had said, Stannis the man with a useless cock betwixt his legs. Her mother had grown cruder over the years, less careful with her words. Sansa cannot remember now the moment when she first realised that her mother was not...honourable, not a woman to model oneself upon. She knows that her mother believed she did everything for the good of her children - a marriage to a king; a rich, younger stepfather - so it is hard to blame her for her actions. She prays for her mother's soul, and happiness, in the sept every day.

She prays for her father too, and her brother, that they be good to one another and rule the Eyrie wisely. She finds herself missing Sweetrobin more than she thought she would, and hopes that he does not miss her too much in return, that her father has found him other children to play with now that their mother, and her jealousy, are no longer there to keep him secluded from everyone else. She writes each week to both parents, and to Sweetrobin, although she rarely receives replies and never from her mother.

The Red Keep, Sansa has found, is as dangerous inside as the Eyrie was outside - yet it is people here, and not the treacherous rocks below, that are the danger, and though she has been freed of her mother's schemes, there are plots and plans all around her which she might fall into if she was not careful.

On the last day of the journey here, the king had spoken to her of the threats at court, during a morning walk across the camp in which she almost had to run to keep up with his brisk strides.

"Many of the women there scheme just like your mother did, though not with such baldness perhaps, and the men plot too," he had said. "Power and influence are seductive potions, and every member of court is there because they want something."

The king is uncommonly honest, and he laid his scorn for the court bare for her that morning, was explicit in telling her of the dangers she would face, as well as describing the protections she would have.

She is thankful for this lesson, for his warnings, and has dutifully followed them. She is never alone in a room with anyone else without a guard or several maidservants, she does not eat or drink anything that has not been tasted first, she does not accept any invitations made to her personally, but waits for them to arrive through the proper channels, she does not accept gifts personally, but receives them once they are given to the crown at large. She watches people, she studies them and listens. Since childhood, she has always seen the benefit of being quiet and watchful and she gladly puts her skills into use here at court.

There are some things she does that the king did not tell her to do. She makes friends with her maidservants and treats them more kindly than her mother treated hers. She visits the orphanages of King's Landing, accompanied by guards that could probably be put to better use even though the king has yet to reprimand her for making use of them for this task, and she gives them food and gifts from the wealth she has access to as the daughter of the Eyrie, teaches the girls to embroider and sew their own clothes, and the boys how to bow and make polite conversation.

"They shall not be little lords, however much you try and train them thus," one of the septas had said to her, disapprovingly.

"Courtesies are useful whichever station one has," Sansa had replied, "and they may be husbands one day, might they not? They should know how to be courteous to their wives."

The septa had only shook her head and told her she was foolish.

Sansa knows that she is a girl who likes the songs, who dreams of romance and great love stories. But it does her no harm to dream of things like this, she thinks, as long as she looks at her own life and position with clear eyes and does not let her head get turned by might-be's and what-if's.

She likes spending time with Shireen, and comes to think of her like a sister she never had. She joins Shireen's lessons too, and is fascinated by learning more about politics and ruling, about money and farming and diplomacy. She had thought herself well-learned by the tutors her father and mother had provided, but she sees now that she only learnt of a very small corner of the world's knowledge. She spends some of her spare time in the royal library, as her maids sigh with boredom beside her and play quiet games with one another, uninterested in reading the dry tomes Sansa rests on the desk before her. There is so much to learn, to know, so much more that Shireen knows already even though she is years younger.

Is it foolish to spend so much time thinking about matters that will not mean much to her when is married to a lord of a smaller holding than the Red Keep? She likes to believe that any man would want a sensible, well-read girl for a wife and mother to his children, that she might thus better help him rule his lands.

She is not ambitious like her mother, she tries to remind herself, she does not overreach herself, she only wishes to learn more.

 

*

 

Stannis is relieved to have saved the lady Sansa from the terrible influence of her mother, and notes that she is as dutiful a girl as she had seemed, and excellent company for Shireen, who seems to bloom under her kindness. He can see no part of Lysa in Sansa, not that he expected to, he knows well that shared blood does not mean shared temperament too.

Sansa chooses plain dresses of fine fabric befitting her rank, wears her hair loose in the northern style, and her face free of paint and calculating smiles. She is studious, according to the tutor she shares with Shireen, and he often sees her on her way to and from the royal sept where she makes her daily private prayers. With so many of his other decisions as king being found at fault, being undermined by others and ruined by the weak foibles of his men, it is fortifying that he can catch sight of the lady Sansa at court and know that he has made the right decision in this occasion.

She does not meet with him in his solar like Shireen does, for that would not be appropriate, but he shares brief words with her now and then, when they pass in a courtyard at dawn - the two of them both being early risers, a quality in Sansa that he approves of - or near the sept, and on the archery field where she learns alongside Shireen.

"What do you think about the character of the lady Sansa?" he asks Shireen on one of their walks around the grounds, soon after the lady has come to court. It is important that a ruler should be able to take the measure of a person quickly, accurately, and not be swayed by pleasing manners or a pretty face.

"She is kind," Shireen says, "thoughtful, modest, and clever."

He nods approvingly. "And what are her faults?"

"She is _too_ modest," Shireen says, "and she lacks the confidence to speak up on her own behalf, though she will gladly speak for someone else."

"If these are truly all her faults they are few," he says, and Shireen nods.

They enter the rose courtyard. "You might have heard talk," he says, "baseless rumours, that I am to marry soon, but you should know that these are false. I shall not enter into another marriage lightly and you shall be informed of any decision I make before the gossips of the court hear anything of it. You are my heir, Shireen, and if I have no other children, you will make a fine queen."

"Thank you, father," she says, bowing her head.

If only others at court were so accepting of his decisions as Shireen, and willing to trust that when he says he does not wish to marry yet _he means it_.

The Lannisters appear at court accompanied by a large retinue. Lord Lannister expects a seat on his small council that he will not give, Stannis dislikes Tywin's character, his greediness. Lord Lannister has not forgiven Robert for dying before Cersei could marry him and become his queen but evidently he is still peddling the same plot, because here Cersei is, newly widowed after her husband Lord Bealor Hightower died of a fever, and wearing dresses accented by Baratheon colours as if Stannis is a bird whose eyes will be caught by something shiny.

Cersei seeks to seduce him with her tight dresses and low necklines, with curtseying low, smiling at jokes he does not make, manoeuvring herself to stand beside him or approach him when he is alone.

"Good morrow, Your Grace," she says, one morning when he is striding across a courtyard, walking towards him with her hips swinging ridiculously like she is a snake.

"Good morrow, Lady Hightower," he says brusquely.

She stops him with an impertinent hand on his arm that he glances at so that she removes it quickly. "It is a lovely day for a walk, Your Grace" she says, and smiles.

"Indeed. Good morrow, Lady Hightower," he says, and inclines his head a fraction before walking away, catching sight of the way her face curdles as he leaves her.

 

*

 

Being not yet of age, Sansa is spared from spending so much time in the public parts of the Red Keep, or in attending audiences regularly in the Great Hall, and yet the keep is too small for her to not cross paths with the other ladies of court, to not become acquainted with them.

Six moons into her stay, there is much made of the arrival of the Tyrells to court, with their elegance and rich retinue, with their beautiful daughter Margaery who is a few years older than Sansa and of age to be married now. Everyone knows that the Tyrells wish for her to marry the king, as every noble family wishes for their daughter, and when Sansa meets her she thinks that this shall surely come to pass, for Margaery is the prettiest young woman she has ever met. Sansa finds herself in the rose courtyard at the same time as her one afternoon and the two girls greet each other with shallow curtseys.

"Lady Sansa," Margaery says, in her pretty voice. "I am so glad to finally meet you, I have heard much about you, and your beauty."

"Thank you, my lady," Sansa says, "tales of your own beauty are well-known across the Seven Kingdoms."

Margaery smiles. "You flatter me," she says. "Now, might you show me 'round this courtyard? The roses remind me of home and I should like to become acquainted with it."

"Certainly," Sansa says, leaving her embroidery with her maid. "Is this your first visit to King's Landing?" she asks.

"My first in many years," she says, taking Sansa's arm. "It is good to see the king look so well this time, so happy."

Happy? Sansa thinks, that is not a description she would ever use to describe his countenance.

"You met the king in the Eyrie, did you not?" Margaery asks as they turn a corner of the courtyard and walk along the path with pretty views out over the coast.

"I did."

"Do you miss it, my lady, your home? Will you return there someday?"

"I do miss it, but King's Landing has its comforts, its beauty. It is not quite so cold here, and I have enjoyed hawking in the forests and trips out beyond King's Landing. The Land outside the Eyrie is perilous, as I am sure you have heard."

"Indeed," Margaery says. "Highgarden is beautiful too but there is something special about King's Landing, the Red Keep in particular, and the court. Everything feels larger here, more important," she says and smiles. "I shall leave you here to finish your embroidery." She takes Sansa's hands, "I hope that we shall become good friends during my stay," she says.

"As do I," Sansa replies, and then watches her leave, her bare back and golden arms glowing in the sunlight.

"She thinks to use you as a route to his Grace, my lady," her maid remarks.

"She does not need my help for that," Sansa says, "she is grace and beauty incarnate." Margaery is also a consummate schemer, a seducer, Sansa thinks, and everything her mother believed she herself was.

Sansa does not want to plot her way into a marriage, she wants to meet a man and fall in love with him, else have the king, whose judgement she trusts, find her an honourable match. Sansa has longed to marry since was a small girl but lately she has oddly found herself wishing to grow up as slowly as possible, that she may not be sent away from the Red Keep so soon.

While the Lady Margaery is always pleasant to her, and makes kind overtures, accompanying her to the orphanage and gifting her with a harp, other visitors to the Red Keep are not so courteous, Cersei Hightower most of all.

Cersei is a new widow and the gossips of the court say that she is now here to catch the king, after having been denied her chance at Robert Baratheon because of his early death. Having experienced her mother's own blooming jealousy of her, it is clear to Sansa that Cersei views her as an obstacle to overcome, and it would be no use telling Cersei that the king has no interest in marrying a girl whose mother placed her in his chambers to seduce him, a mother whose blood runs in her own veins, for Cersei sees enemies everywhere.

Lady Hightower can barely hide her sneer when they cross paths, nor her laughter which is poorly shielded behind a delicate hand held to her face and which makes Sansa flush despite herself, feel poor and little next to the other woman's finery and beauty. Cersei has rich curves and richer dresses; she spins her hair into the elaborate styles favoured by the court and does not leave it loose like Sansa does, in the style of northern girlhood. Cersei is rude, the maids tell Sansa, and difficult to please. If the king marries her, then Sansa should not like to remain here at court, if she is not banished by Cersei immediately upon becoming queen that is.

Cersei has arrived at court accompanied by her formidable father Lord Lannister, and her son and daughter, Joffrey and Myrcella. Myrcella is a few years younger than Sansa, and sweet if a little naive, while Joffrey is of an age to Sansa and deeply unpleasant. Sansa is thankful for the king's rules for her - that she must not accept invitations personally, that she must concentrate on her studies - for it gives her an excuse to avoid him, and his mother. Though she cannot hide from the Lannisters entirely, and corridors seem to be Cersei's location of choice for bumping into her.

"Such a darling dress, little dove," she says to Sansa one day, as if she is a doll, and not the eldest daughter of a noble house greater than the one Cersei married into, Sansa thinks, a little unkindly.

Sansa's dress is plain and high at the neck. As a child she had loved bright dresses with lace and ribbons and all sorts of decorations but observing her mother's choice of fashions over the years has made her tastes plainer. Cersei's sneer is clear, her mockery self-evident.

"Thank you, my lady, I embroidered it myself," Sansa replies, curtseying shallowly.

"How lovely," Cersei says. "Is it a design you learned in the Eyrie? I hear the winters are long there, and the keep quiet, you must have had many hours in which to perfect your skills. Did your mother teach you how to sew?" It is not the done thing to refer to Sansa's mother, and few others are so bold to. Lysa became ill, the story is told, and was sent to the silent sisters to be cared by them.

"It is of my own design," Sansa says, not pointing out the secret turrets hidden in the swirls of the pattern of navy thread on navy fabric, the parts of the Red Keep that she had included, nor the tiny sigil of the king she had sewn alongside her own and then almost unpicked because she had felt embarrassed, even though no one else would be able to discern it.

"I suppose you do not often have occasion to wear elaborate fashions, being so often secluded away from court," Cersei says slyly.

"It would not become a girl of my age to dress in such a way yet."

"Indeed," Cersei says, her eyes creasing as she smiles, and then brushes past her, heavy skirts clipping Sansa's ankles.

Surely the king's good judgement of character will not allow him to marry such a lady? Yet perhaps Cersei is the kind of woman a king would wish for, powerful and clever, beautiful. She is certainly rich, and the backing of the Lannisters would pour gold into the coffers of the crown which could be put to use for the people in King's Landing and further afield; Sansa is not so mean-hearted that she would begrudge that.

 

*

 

A year into her stay in King's Landing, the lady Sansa flowers and his small council brings up the news, and her marriage prospects, at the next meeting.

"She is still too young to bear children," Stannis replies immediately, "or to marry."

"But not too young to be betrothed, surely?" one of his council suggests.

"She is not the Arryn heir, there is no rush to find her a match," his Lord Hand says.

"Quite," Stannis replies. "Now might we move onto to discussing something more important, perchance? The harvest failure in the Crownlands and its import for our grain stores, to start with."

That night Davos shows him a large pile of letters, marriage proposals for Sansa.

"Your refusal to entertain any suits for her only adds to the rumours, Your Grace."

"Gossip is gossip," he says, scowling over his fists and staring at the fire.

"You must have heard the rumours," Davos presses.

"She is my ward, not my betrothed. Why does the court persist in believing falsehoods? She is but a girl."

"She is a woman now."

"Barely."

"She has flowered and is a woman now in the eyes of the court, you cannot hide her away forever, Your Grace."

"I have not hidden her away," he replies.

"I am only concerned for her."

"As am I, she is my ward. Do you doubt my ability to look after the interests of a single girl; I, who rule a kingdom?"

"No, Your Grace."

Sansa seems embarrassed by her new status when he sees her next; she flushes and looks pained, avoids his eyes. Has she heard the same gossip as everyone else? Does she think he wishes to marry her himself? Surely not.

Nonetheless he seeks to correct any misinformation she has received, meeting her one morning as she trains on the archery field, whilst Shireen is staying inside recovering from a cold she has lately caught.

"Good morrow, my lady," he says, as the servants and teacher bow, and Sansa curtseys. She does not bob down clumsily like some girls do, every motion of hers is elegant and thoughtful. She looks demurely at the ground, she does not peek up at him like the lady Margaery who has been paraded back and forth in front of him like a ripe steak for an interminable time.

Sansa moves to hand her bow to a servant.

"Do not let me interrupt you, my lady," Stannis says, "finish your quiver."

"As you wish, Your Grace," she says, still blushing, before she turns to face the target and composes herself.

He finds himself holding his breath at the same time she does, his chest almost burning before she releases the arrow and exhales.

"A perfect hit," her teacher says and Stannis turns to look at the target, seeing that he spoke true. Then he looks back to Sansa and sees the corner of her mouth lift in a pleased smile.

Her next arrow is not quite so true but she gathers her determination and the third hits right next to the first. When she shoots her next, and last, arrow she gasps, almost dropping her bow in shock as the servants clap, and he drags his eyes away from her to see that the arrow has gone straight through the first and split it in two.

"A perfect hit," Stannis remarks.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she says, beaming a proud smile.

"I wanted to talk to you about a certain matter," he says, once she has given up her bow and turned to him. "Shall we walk the field?"

"Of course, Your Grace," she says and he strides down the grass, hands behind his back, only slowing down when he realises that his walking speed will force her out of breath beside him.

"You are of age now, lady Sansa," he says, and she nods tightly, "and are thus old enough to be wed in the eyes of some. Yet it would not be right for a woman of your rank, and tender years, to hurry into a betrothal. Do you agree?"

"I do, Your Grace," she says, and he is pleased by her answer. Girls who wish to throw themselves into a too-young marriage should not be encouraged. Maturity is important in a wife, and if a woman's body is not grown enough to bear children safely then there is no need for a marriage to occur yet.

"As a ward of the crown, I am responsible for arranging a betrothal for you but I want you to know, my lady, that I shall make no sudden demands of you, that I value your thoughts on any prospective betrothed," he says, as they pass between the shade of a thin row of trees. "House Arryn is a noble house, with security and a great lineage, and there is no desperation for new alliances, though of course good matches are important for the future of all noble houses. No decision shall be rushed," he says.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she says, "you have been so kind to me to give me a place in your household."

"It is only what a lady of your station deserves," he says, feeling himself flush a little at her praise, a ridiculous reaction.

They walk along further, their pace slowing as they near a courtyard peopled by groups of courtiers, and Sansa's maid and a guard approach to accompany her back to her rooms.

"Have you been happy here at the Red Keep?" he asks Sansa, and finds himself uncommonly eager to hear her reply.

"Very happy, Your Grace," she says, and then moves a little closer as her voice quietens, "I feel lucky that it was you who found me that day in the Eyrie, and not another man, if you forgive my mentioning it," she says.

He feels his teeth grit at the very thought of another man, a man without his scruples, finding her in her robe in his bed. Lucky indeed, he thinks, as he takes his leave of her.

 

*

 

Half a year later, the long peace of the reign of King Stannis, the First of His Name, is shattered by a rebellion by House Greyjoy. Sansa has no memory of war, being born after Robert's rebellion, and she is frightened and worried on behalf of the soldiers who will face such a threat, concerned for Stannis who will lead his army and will be the concentrated target of any attack.

It all seems to happens so quickly and Stannis leaves King's Landing barely a day after he receives word from the north, but not without meeting Sansa briefly in Shireen's solar. He tells her that the Lord Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, who remains at the Red Keep, shall see to her care - should something happen to him, he implies, though these words are not said. Lord Arryn and the men of the Vale will be called upon too, he says, and tears form in her eyes at the thought of her aged father in battle. Stannis seems uncomfortable with her show of emotion so she hurries across the room to her sewing basket to retrieve her favour for the king before he leaves. Luckily, she has sewn him a few favours already, though she has never had the occasion to gift him with one of them, and she passes over the linen square carefully.

It looks small in his hand and a little poor, and she wishes she had spent longer than the moons she took to sew it. Stannis seems befuddled by her giving it to him, and his face softens strangely.

"Thank you, my lady," he says after a pause.

"You are welcome, Your Grace," she says, curtseying. "I wish you well and shall pray for your safe return, and for a swift victory."

He nods tightly, his previous dour expression returning.

He sweeps out of the room, and it is a year and a half until she sees him again. If she had known it would be so long she would have watched him more closely, memorised his face, she would have ran to the ramparts to see his horse depart and watch it as it became a small speck in the distance.

It takes a long time for her to remember not expect to see the king when she turns a corner of the keep, when she walks across a courtyard just after dawn, when she enters the great hall. She misses him dearly, had not realised how fond she was of him until he was gone, if one may be fond of a stern king like Stannis. Shireen shares more stories of her father with him away, about her earlier childhood, her parents' unhappy marriage, the ways in which he learned how to be a father to a daughter, and Sansa listens to them eagerly.

"He should have more children," she says to Shireen one day as they are practising archery on a foggy day that turns the targets murky at the end of the field. "If you forgive my saying so."

"Oh no, I agree," Shireen says, "he would be a good father to more sons and daughters. Sometimes I feel selfish that I have had him to myself all these years."

"He loves you very much," Sansa says, notching another arrow.

"I worry that one reason he has yet to marry is because he does not wish to have a son and supplant me. But truthfully, Sansa, I would not mind not being queen someday, and letting a brother be the next ruler instead. Kingship, queenship, is a great burden, a great duty to have."

"You are young yet, and Stannis has time to find another wife and have children."

"I should like another mother, as well as siblings," Shireen says, with a shy smile.

Sansa does not say that when Stannis returns it is likely he will marry immediately, the war having delayed a much-needed second marriage, because she is trying not to think on it herself.

When the Lannister fleet is attacked and they are drawn into the war, Cersei comes to King's Landing for safety and, Sansa believes, to try and wedge herself into the court so that when Stannis returns a marriage to her is unavoidable. Whilst Cersei has many supporters at court, so does Margaery Tyrell, and Sansa finds herself in the odd position of being looked to as a sort of adjudicator, even as she tries to disavow such a position.

While Shireen hears news of the battles directly, in conference with Ser Davos, Sansa hears news from the letters received by some of the other women of the court, who she takes tea with or sits and embroiders alongside in the gardens, or in a particular large solar outside Maegor's Holdfast that used to belong to Selyse and which Shireen had asked her to make use of. The women are frightened for their husbands and sons, for the armies of their lands, and Sansa tries her best to soothe them, to remind them of the last rebellion a Baratheon had won, of the king's might and skill.

The women speak pointedly of their younger sons sometimes too, boys of Sansa's age, and she politely brushes aside their insinuations. War is no time to contemplate marriage and children, even if she does look wistfully now at mothers with babes in their arms, and finds herself dreaming of being a mother someday, and slips into a bed at night that feels oddly cold and lonely even though she has always slept alone.

She prays for the king every day until her knees are sore from the hard stone floor of the sept, and writes letters to him, a scant handful with ink and parchment, and many others in her head that she does not send. The king has no time to read her little notes, he will be receiving far more important correspondence.

Ser Davos comes across her writing one day, when he is looking for Shireen, and asks her if she should like to help him write some of his own correspondence on behalf of the king and Sansa flushes with shame for not thinking to offer her services before.

She learns much more about the war from these letters, and about how involved Stannis still is in the day-to-day running of the Seven Kingdoms.

"It is not because he does not trust me to rule in his stead," Ser Davos explains when she expresses surprise, "it is because he feels it a duty, a responsibility, to make every decision himself so that if there is blame it falls upon his own head."

"He should concentrate on the war at his doorstep," she says and then murmurs her apology.

"I concur, my lady, but his character has been thus since I first met him and is unlike to change."

"He is a good king," she says, "I cannot imagine a better king."

"Neither can I," he says, and she turns back to the parchment in front of her, carefully copying Ser Davos' earlier messy note.

She likes to think of the king receiving these letters, of him holding them in his broad, sword-callused hands in a dimly lit tent somewhere, and, a little fancifully, of him running his finger along the words she has written in her own hand.

 

*

 

Stannis had hoped, foolishly, that he would not see another war in his lifetime, but men are ever treacherous and ambitious, and the Greyjoys seek to split apart the Seven Kingdoms. He will not let them go unpunished, and even when the crown is victorious he seeks to put down every last remaining ember of war so that rebellion cannot catch alight again, and thus it is a long campaign.

War is blood, and death, and illness; it is a mass of unwashed, bloody men as far as the eye can see; it is dismemberment, fire and ash; it is the crunch of boat against boat, the ocean frothing with blood and drowning men; it is the jar of joints, hands rubbed raw around the hilt of swords, skin bruised by the edges of metal plate.

Stannis does not relish killing, does not feel the same battle lust his brother did with his infamous warhammer. The Greyjoys favour cowardly small raids and so his archers are called upon heavily, and Stannis finds himself watching and praying that their arrows find their aim true, so that more crown soldiers are not lost in awkward close combat amongst the rocky coastline.

Stannis is older now than he was during Robert's Rebellion and he feels it in his bones and muscles, in the aches and pains which are his companions at night whether on a boat or on land. The wartime provisions offered to a king are lavish but he has never been one who welcomes decadence, and so he refuses to hoard food or comforts that might also be enjoyed by his advisors and men. A Lannister lordling has the audacity to offer him a woman once, placing her in his tent for him to find after the conclusion of a long battle. She has red hair, which only makes him angrier as he escorts her out and upbraids the Lannister fool, unwittingly thinking of Sansa in that thin robe in his bed at the Eyrie.

He thinks about the Red Keep often now, somehow King's Landing has truly become home for him, which is somewhat unsettling. He thinks of the palace at night, allows his mind to roam through its corridors and rooms, peopling them with the few people he thinks well of. He receives regular correspondence from his Lord Hand and Shireen, and finds himself searching for news of the goings-on at court where once his eyes might have swept over those parts. He is yet to receive a letter mentioning any possible betrothal for Sansa and for that he is glad, war is no time for marriages.

 _The next missive might come in the hand of the lady Sansa, for she has offered her assistance with your correspondence and has a far fairer hand than me_ , a raven from Davos says one day halfway through the war. Stannis imagines her sitting in his chair writing the letter on his own desk, her delicate frown of concentration, the swoops and swirls of her quill. He finds himself eager for the next letter, even though it only brings dry news of boundary stones and forest management, and rubs his finger along the lines written in her hand before he sets it aside and admonishes himself for such a nonsensical act.

The final battle is an endless and bloody siege of Pyke in which he comes close to losing his own life but a soldier who moves in front of him is cut down dead instead and the only wound Stannis sustains is a deep gash in his shoulder. He orders the family of the man who saved his life rewarded handsomely, and a rich gravestone carved. Once the castle is breached, it is but a few days before Balon Greyjoy kneels before him and pledges his allegiance, but it takes moons after that to quell the last raids and beat back the remaining rebels.

Finally he returns to King's Landing, victorious and weary, the Seven Kingdoms one and peace secured.

 

*

 

When Sansa hears that the rebellion has finally been put down and that Stannis is returning to King's Landing she is a bundle of many emotions - excitement; nervousness; a shy pride that he might see how much she has grown and hear of the small services she has performed for the crown; and a fear of how the king's return might herald changes, that both of them will surely make their own marriages soon and Sansa will be sent away from the place she now happily calls home.

She had read in a letter lately about the soldier who gave his life to save Stannis, and the knowledge of how close the king came to his own death has kept her awake many nights in fear and worry. She has spent many hours in the sept giving thanks to the Seven and praying for his safe return.

Shireen, who is almost a woman now, is excited to see her father and Sansa helps her dress on the day he returns to court, plaiting her hair neatly and soothing her nerves by reminding her that the king shall be just the same as he always was, if a little more weary. Sansa believes these words until she sees the king in person as he enters the great hall, in his ceremonial armour, striding towards the throne as all bow in honour.

He looks more than weary, he looks thin and worn and she aches strangely to care for him, to smooth her hand across his deeply furrowed brow, to make him lemon water and play her harp so that he might sleep soundly.

And has he always been this tall, this imposing, she wonders, or has she remembered him wrong? When he gives his speech his voice rumbles powerfully, his eyes flash sharply, his posture is strong when he sits on the throne. She feels her cheeks heat up, feels her heart tremble in her chest at his potency, even with his fatigue.

 

*

 

When Stannis had left the Red Keep, Sansa had been a girl but he returns to a woman in her place, with womanly curves, with confidence and a radiant look about her. He catches sigh of a flash of her red hair in the throne room but it is only later when he encounters her in the private rooms of Maegor's Holdfast that he sees how different she is now from the girl he met in the Eyrie.

She curtseys deeply to him, her eyes shining with an emotion he cannot read, her body trembling slightly. He wants to ask her if she is well; he wants to ask her to recount everything she has done all the moons he has been gone; he wants to sit and listen to her new, deeper voice, to hear if her laugh has changed and to spend enough time with her to notice what else might have changed too.

"It is good to see you, Your Grace," she says, while he is floundering in his mind. "I prayed for your victory and safe return."

"Thank you for your prayers, my lady," he says stiffly, inclining his head. He wants to show her the favour she gifted him that he wore close to his breast but it is stained and mussed by the muck of war and such things are not suitable to be seen by a lady such as her.

They stare silently at each other for a few moments before Davos gets his attention and he leaves for his office with Shireen, who has grown so much while he has been gone, and is almost a woman now, nearly a foot and a half taller and with the last shynesses of her childhood gone. It is Shireen who persuades Stannis to host a small birthday feast for Sansa a few weeks later, him having returned to King's Landing shortly after her latest birthday.

He is surprised to see how many ladies of the court attend her feast and to observe how Sansa has created a kind of court about herself, and he feels proud of what she has achieved whilst he has been gone, and yet relieved when they retire to Shireen's solar as a smaller party and he does not have to listen to the women start up their matchmaking again to him, speak of their daughters and their many talents and extraordinary beauty. He finds himself wondering how any woman might be as beautiful as Sansa, and the thought does not leave him as he presents her with the gifts he has chosen and he sees her eyes light up in delight, watches her pleased gasp and the flushing of her cheeks.

The gilded bow he gave her is pronounced 'perfect', the book of histories clutched to her chest, and the golden bracelet with small diamonds set into it seems to bring tears to her eyes and as she fumbles to put it on he finds himself leaning over and fixing the clasp for her, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin of her wrist.

He is a fool, he thinks as she steps back and smiles, blushing becomingly.

 

*

 

The gifts the king gives her are thoughtful and personal, _beautiful_. She knows that she is embarassing herself by blushing and reacting in such an unladylike manner but the idea of Stannis taking the time to choose her gifts makes her feel touched, whilst the notion that this might be the last birthday she has in the same keep as him is making her chin want to tremble.

She took great care with her dress tonight, worked on the embroidery of her skirts herself for days so that the tips of her fingers throb. She pinned back the front of her hair and left the back loose in the northern style and pinched her cheeks to make them red, smoothed beeswax on her lips. She cannot help but hope that the king finds her beautiful, although she would never expect him to remark upon her attire.

As she allows herself a small sip of wine with Shireen and Ser Davos, and a few of her closest companions, she watches Stannis run his eye along the bookshelf, and sets her cup down to move and stand next to him, with her new bow in her hands.

"Thank you again, Your Grace, for such a fine gift," she says, "although a bow like this is surely too fine to use."

"I had it made so that you might use it. It is not a decoration," he says, with his customary bluntness.

"Even so, I shall keep it in my rooms and look after it carefully," she replies, where once she might have folded immediately to his wishes. Her time at court has made her more confident in herself.

"There is a place for it in the armoury but as it is your gift you may do with it what you wish," he concedes and she smiles.

A few moons later Stannis hosts a ball, at the insistence of his small council, in celebration of his victory and to honour the houses and families who supported the crown's army, even as she hears that Stannis has argued that it was their duty to come to his aid, that they need not be _rewarded_ by a ball. He is also angry, Shireen says, that half the women attending will be unmarried daughters, that its true purpose is a marriage market.

Perhaps, Sansa thinks somewhat mournfully, as she is getting dressed the afternoon before the ball, she will find her own husband at this ball, for some of the women of court have made pointed remarks about her age lately, even though she would still be considered fairly young to marry.

"My father shall be forced to dance tonight," Shireen murmurs later that evening as they stare out into the crowd of the hall. "His brow is so furrowed he looks pained," she notes and the two of them share a smile.

"He will be telling Ser Davos that it is a mummery," Sansa says, watching the king speak with his Lord Hand.

"A _ridiculous_ mummery," Shireen corrects and Sansa hides her laughter with her hand.

Yet her mirth seeps away as she watches him dance with a few choice women of the court, Margaery and Cersei among them, other beautiful noble daughters too. The court is buzzing like bees, watching the king like hawks for any sign that he prefers any particular woman. He does not speak to the women he dances with beyond a few curt words at the beginning, and leaves each with the same brief incline of his head.

Sansa herself dances with a few of the young men, trying to concentrate on their polite conversations and not let her attention drift away towards the king. The men she dances with are perfectly pleasant, and some of them are very handsome too, strong and tall, but they do not make her feel the way the king does, even as she knows she must force herself to be practical, to not get carried away by fancies that will never happen. Life is not a song, and she must make her own happiness, not wait for it to find her.

She is walking towards the doors of the hall, hoping for a moment's repose in the corridor or the courtyard beyond, when the king approaches to her left and she stops and turns towards him, smiling and curtseying.

"May I have the next dance?" he asks plainly, without the addition of pretty words about her skills at dancing or her dress. His face appears pained.

"Of course, Your Grace," she says, feeling her heart trip in her chest, even as she knows that he is only asking her to be polite, perhaps at Shireen's insistence, and because she is still his ward.

She tries not to notice the murmur of the crowd when she takes the floor in his arms, and allows herself to concentrate fully on the king, on how it feels to have her hand in his, his arm about her. Of how she can feel the warmth of his body, the smell of leather and skin so close to him. His gaze does not drop from hers as they turn around the room yet she cannot fathom his emotion. Is he pleased to be dancing with her? She cannot tell.

Remember this moment, she thinks to herself, as the rest of the hall blurs around him, let this memory warm you on the cold nights to come.

 

*

 

A moon after the ball, following a morning's small council meeting in which his councillors express their frustration at his refusal to enter into another betrothal yet, with much mention made of the need to reward the Lannisters for their aid and heavy losses during the rebellion, to which Stannis reponds with anger that he knows is partly due to knowing that they are right that he has been too long unwed, he spends a calmer afternoon with Shireen in his solar.

They are discussing taxes and the Iron Bank when the sudden sound of alarum from outside disturbs them. Stannis opens the door to his solar and sees a terrified maidservant stumbling towards him. "Assassin!" she cries. "In Maegor's Holdfast! There is blood on the floor-"

"Guard my daughter," Stannis orders three of his kingsguard, "and answer the door for none but me. The rest of you with me," he orders, hurrying out of his solar, sword already in his hand, swatting away the suggestion of one of his kingsguard who tells him he should remain with the princess safe behind a locked door. Stannis is not a coward, but his heart is trembling in his chest.

 _Sansa_ , he thinks, _blood on the floor_ , he repeats inside his head.

He passes the slick of blood and the bodies of two maids on the ground and tries not to think about what sight might await him further along the corridor. He halts before the crowd of guards outside the door to Sansa's chambers who are banging on the door, trying to shoulder it open.

"She won't open the door!" they call back as Stannis demands to know what is happening.

"Lady Sansa is alive?" he asks, trying not to notice the way his voice breaks.

"She's put something heavy against the door," the guard at the front grunts.

"Is she in there alone? Where is the assassin? Stand back!" he orders, furious with everyone. He bashes on the door. "Sansa?" he calls out, hushing his guards angrily.

"Stannis?" her voice says, weak and strange. "Your Grace?"

"Sansa, open this door," he demands. "That is an order."

A pause and then he hears the slow dragging sounds of something being moved from the door. "Stand back," he orders and then kicks the door in.

"I killed him," Sansa blurts out, standing there white as ghost, one arm clutched about her waist and a smear of blood down her face and neck.

"Sansa, are you hurt?" he asks, coming forward and holding her by the shoulders, his gaze roaming her form. Her eyes flick to the corner of the room, to a figure slumped in a pool of blood with an arrow stuck deep in his chest.

"Guards," he calls, "see to the assassin." He turns to the shivering woman in front of him. "Are you hurt?" he asks again.

Her eyes are very wide, her pupils fearful pinpricks. She is in shock.

"Whose blood is this?" he asks, lifting a sodden lock of her hair.

"He's alive!" his guards call.

"Take him to the dungeons," Stannis orders, "and secure the rest of the palace." Someone will pay for letting this man inside. "Fetch me a maester and maidservants for lady Sansa," he says. She does not appear to be gravely injured but is clearly hurt and shocked.

"He had a knife," she says. "He was going to kill me, it cut me here," she says, pointing with a shaken hand to her forehead.

"Nowhere else?"

"His hands bruised me. But the rest of the blood is his."

"Sansa," he says, swallowing, the room now empty save for a row of guards a few steps away at the door. "Did he mistreat you?"

She looks at him confused. He curses under his breath.

"Your maidenhead-" he says.

"No," she says, shaking her head, "no, he only wanted to kill me."

Only, he thinks.

"He was dressed as a guard, but I did not recognise him. He said that you had called for me but I told him I needed something from my rooms. He cut down my maids while I ran."

"You were brave, and wise," he says. His hands are rubbing her arms, unwittingly smearing the blood further. He steps back and her body sways and he catches her and brings her to the floor in his arms.

"Where is the maester?" he demands, "and the maids, damn it!"

"I killed him," she repeats.

"You saved yourself. If he shall die he deserved it," he tells her.

"I used the bow you gave me," she says, a shaking smile crossing her face as he looks down upon her. "The one you said I should keep in the armoury," she says.

"I am glad it could be of use to you," he says, gruffly, and then tears his eyes away from her as the maester and maids finally arrive. He lifts Sansa up into his arms and carries her over to her bed.

"I shall wait outside while you help the lady Sansa," he says, "please report to me forthwith," he adds.

He leaves the room with his guards and pauses. He should go to his solar now, start rounding up the people of the Red Keep to learn how the assassin had entered wearing the colours of the guard, how such negligence has come to pass, but he waits right where he is.

A few moments later the maester leaves, seemingly startled by Stannis' presence just outside the door.

"Well?" he demands.

"A cut to her forehead," he says, "bruises to her arm and waist. And she is shocked and tearful."

Stannis feels his fists clench painfully in his gloves.

"Sweetsleep and rest," the maester says, "plain food and quiet company."

Stannis nods. "See to it," he says and then he collects him, striding off towards his solar and the chaos of the rest of the keep, past the blood stains where the bodies of the maids have been removed. Someone must pay for this, he thinks, and pay dearly.

 

*

 

Sansa shivers as she lies in bed trying to sleep, trying to get warm. The blood has been washed from her gently by maids but she still feels it on her skin, still smells it. They had not let her see the bodies but she knows her two maids died terrible, and all to save her.

She had never thought that she might ever kill someone, that she would hurt someone thus, and she prays she never has to again. Even after the assassin had slumped to the floor and lost so much of his blood she was still frightened that he would rise and attack her again, frightened too of what she had done, the horrible sound the arrow made when it entered him after being shot from such close quarters. 

She only felt truly safe when she was in the king's arms, when he was holding her. She thinks, nonsensically, that she should always like to be held by him. He is not a handsome man but she finds him comely - how tall he is, how firm his body is, the deep tone of his voice, even the creases in his well furrowed forehead are pleasing to her. She snorts a little with hysterical laughter, and then shivers again and lets tears squeeze from her eyes.

 

*

 

The assassin dies before a name can be ferreted out of him.

"She has a good aim," Davos murmurs but Stannis only clenches his jaw angrily. If Sansa had not had the fortitude to run from him, if she had not had the bow and arrows in her room and the bravery to shoot him from but a foot away; she could have died, alone, in a matter of moments, and he would not have known until it was too late.

"I want to know who was responsible for this, and what they wanted," Stannis says, slamming his hand on the desk.

There is a pause. "I believe you know what they wanted, Your Grace," Davos says, "The court believes her to be your betrothed in all but name, someone wanted her out of the way so you were free to marry another woman."

Stannis grits his teeth.

"If she were your betrothed, and if you should marry her, she would be safer, for a measure of it. They think to be so bold because of the uncertainty, I believe."

Stannis feels a sudden wave of tiredness from the day, and a great ache in his jaw from clenching it. He feels weary. He sits back down at his desk.

"You are fond of the lady Sansa, are you not?" Davos suggests.

 _Fond_. When he had thought she might be dead he had felt such terror.

"Have I been a fool, Davos?" he asks quietly.

"No, only a man."

He huffs. "My intentions were honourable, I did not intend to bring her here for aught else."

"You fell in love."

"Love has nothing to do with anything," he snaps.

"She would make a good queen."

"She would," he nods, "but I shall not force her to accept my hand. I shall ask her in person before any announcement is made."

"Of course," Davos says, nodding encouragingly.

Stannis stays awake late that night, ruminating, worrying in an unbecoming manner. What if Sansa is so scarred by the assassin that she does not wish to stay here at King's Landing, and rightly wishes to live someplace more peaceful? It would only be natural for her to refuse his hand for that reason.

How ridiculous to be nervous about asking a woman for her hand. If Sansa does not wish to marry him, and why should she, a mean voice in him thinks, for he is old and dour and brusque in manner, then he shall find another wife.

Sansa is only more beautiful now than she had been when he first met her. She is courteous, sweet, dutiful, and uncommonly kind; a rare jewel that any man would be lucky to own. The proof is in the ever-growing stack of proposals received by raven and messenger; and now he must join their poor lot and make his paltry offer.

 

*

 

Two days after the attack, a steward tells Sansa that Stannis has requested her presence in the King's Courtyard. She is nervous about the reason for such a formal invitation. Has he decided that she shall be sent elsewhere, that the Red Keep is too dangerous for her, that he cannot afford to waste his resources to keep her safe when they should rightly go to guarding Shireen? Has he accepted a proposal on her behalf, even though he swore he would not do so without consulting with her? Perhaps this incidence has forced his hand, or an occurrence elsewhere, perhaps he is in need of an alliance that her marriage may forge and she is to be sent far away.

She dresses carefully, wearing the bracelet he gave her even though she knows it should be saved for feasts and special occasions, because it gives her courage to see it, to remember him gifting it and tying it round her wrist.

The courtyard is small and private, and for the king's own personal use. It is bordered by trees that throw their pleasant shade on the patterned tiles of the ground, and a babbling fountain sits in the centre, attracting small birds and reflecting the midday sun.

The king is waiting for her near the centre, hands behind his back, usual dour look upon his face, and she walks carefully over to him, her feet feeling unsteady even though the ground is smooth.

"Good morrow, Your Grace," she says, dipping into a curtsey.

"Good morrow, my lady," he replies, bending his head towards her.

There is a pause and he looks away from her, towards the other end of the courtyard.

"Are you recovered from the attack?" he asks, without looking at her.

"Yes, Your Grace," she replies. He is going to send her away, she thinks, this is why he will not look at her.

"I have called you here to speak of a matter of great importance," he says, and she sees his arms flex as he clenches his fists.

She tries to gather her courage. She will not weep like a foolish girl in front of him, she will not embarrass herself.

"I speak of course of marriage," he says and she bites her lip to hold back the pained noise that she wishes to release. "Lady Sansa," he says, and then turns towards her, his blue eyes meeting hers, and pushes his shoulders back, "Lady Sansa, I am not a man of honeyed words and courtesies. My manner is brusque, my countenance stern."

Sansa's heart is beating very fast in her chest.

"A king needs a queen," he says, "I need a wife. House Arryn is a proud and loyal house and you are dutiful and honourable, you are wise for your tender age, modest, kind...you are very pleasing to me. My lady, will you accept my hand?" he asks.

She lets out a sob that she cannot hold back, her eyes brimming with tears. "Yes, Your Grace, yes," she says, and he reaches forward to take her hands.

"You may call me Stannis, when we are alone," he says, looking down at her hand, finger tracing her bracelet.

"Stannis," she says, smiling wider, she thinks, than she ever has. "I should be honoured to be your wife."

"And my queen," he adds and she nods her head. He brings a shaking hand towards her face and brushes away the tears on her cheeks. It is the first time he has touched her thus, tenderly, and she feels her body tremble with it.

She wishes she could wrap her arms around his neck but she does not think he would welcome such an unladylike motion here out in the open.

"You have made me very happy, Sansa," he murmurs and then coughs as if he is embarrassed by his own words.

She might spend the rest of her life now making him happy, and that thought makes her so pleased she feels as if she might float up into the air.

The betrothal is announced the next day at court and Sansa is inundated with well-wishes and gifts, with jealous looks flashed from corners of rooms, and yet little materially changes in her life. She remains in the same rooms in Maegor's Holdfast, has the same servants and spends the same amount of time with Shireen - who has now finished her lessons and has been made directly responsible for small parts of the crown's duties under the supervision of Ser Davos. Sansa embroiders still, she visits the orphanage, she practices her archery, rides and hawks in the forest outside King's Landing, hosts ladies of the court for tea and conversation.

She would think the betrothal but a dream except for the way the king looks at her now; and for the dinners and feasts in which she now sits beside him, her body vibrating with tension, knowing that she could lean just a little to her left and touch him and yet never having the courage to do this.

It was to be a long betrothal due to her age but if she had known how long a year and score would feel, she might have begged him to marry her sooner, prostrated herself in front of him and embarrassed herself with her eagerness.

They dance occasionally at the scant balls Stannis can be persuaded to host, and she can barely sleep afterwards for the feeling of her hand in his, his other arm around her shoulder or her waist, his body next to hers when he lifts her and turns her, the smell of him, the sensation of his breath glancing across her cheek as they sway, how his eyes look so close, his lips, the tendons of his neck. She feels like an animal, lustful, wild, and surely he can see it in her own eyes even as she tries to be ladylike and demure.

He has yet to kiss her, not even a kiss to her cheek, and she aches for it, begins to worry as the moons drift on. Is she not pleasing to him, is something in her manner wrong, is she too eager, does he not want her?

 

*

 

Stannis' betrothal draws much unwanted attention - well-wishes, endless gifts, letters, offers of ladies-in-waiting and playmates for the children he has yet to have, occasional crude comments by other men whom he glares at until they take back their words.

He is occupied with investigating the appalling lax in security that allowed an assassin into Maegor's Holdfast. The guards of the keep, he decides, have become lazy while he has been gone at war, plots have been left to fester, and duties forgotten. Training and increased inspections are implemented and his investigation, including interviews with maids and servants, reveals a plot forged by Cersei Hightower, though he has only testimony to pin it upon her and does not think he could successfully try her in court. Instead, he takes what he has found to Lord Lannister, who is thus persuaded to marry her off far from King's Landing, to Roose Bolton, moving her close to her twin who is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch now after being sent to the wall by Stannis when he broke his kingsguard vows years ago.

The rest of the Lannisters retreat to Casterly Rock and he is relieved, relieved also at the many marriages which may now be arranged for all the unwed daughters of noble houses who had been waiting in vain to become queen. Although it is bothersome that King's Landing often provides a place where families may meet and alliances can be made because Stannis seems to be forever turning a corner of the keep to find some couple staring wondrously into each other's eyes, giggling, or kissing lewdly. If he and Sansa can be proprietous with their betrothal then why can others not as well, he thinks.

Stannis is standing in the royal library one day near the window, eye caught by the flame of Sansa's hair outside on the archery field, and the movement of her body as she draws her bow, the smile he can just about glimpse on her face when her aim is true.

Davos moves beside him, after returning a book to the shelves. "Lady Sansa asked me if you were displeased with her," he says, and coughs, "she wondered why you had not kissed her yet."

"She said this?" Stannis replies disbelievingly.

"Maidens are romantic creatures, Your Grace," Davos says, and then rocks on his heels, "and might I be so impertinent to say that going from no kisses to many kisses suddenly might be shocking for someone of Sansa's delicate sensibilities."

"All this talk of kissing, Lord Hand," he scoffs, "one does not sire heirs by kissing."

Davos raises an impertinent eyebrow.

"I shall spend more time with my betrothed," Stannis concedes, as if it is a hardship for him. In truth the real hardship is spending time with her without giving in the urge to embrace her, to touch her silken hair, stroke her cheek, do all manner of foolish things a king should not waste his time thinking about.

Surely kisses should be reserved for private rooms, but it is not appropriate for Sansa and he to linger alone in a room with a locked door yet, and this provides a difficulty. He solves the problem by asking her to walk with him in the King's Courtyard early one morning when much of the household will still be asleep. She looks as beautiful as ever when she enters, her skin pale, her blue eyes bright, her cheeks flushed becomingly.

And yet the day is cold at this hour and he sees her shiver slightly and curses himself for not thinking of her comfort. He offers her his cloak and she expresses her thanks as if he has offered her a jewel box instead. Her courtesies make him feel like a fumbling oaf sometimes. He helps her cold fingers fix the clasp of the cloak and then he realises how close he is to her, how pink her lips look, how she quivers as she looks at him.

She wants kisses, he reminds himself, and he dips towards her and meets her lips with his. She gasps when they touch, her hands rising to clutch at his shoulders and, pleased, he tilts his mouth and presses more firmly against her lips, draws an arm around her tiny waist and pulls her to him. She tastes sweet, she smells like roses and lemons, and his body heats with want as their kisses deepen, as he sucks at her bottom lip before drawing back for breath and to get himself under control.

Her cheeks are pink, her lips almost swollen from his kisses and he feels a manful pride to see it, even as he admonishes himself for this feeling. He gives in and brushes one more kiss across her lips, moves to press one more against her soft cheek, and then raises a hand to touch a silken curl of her hair that has come loose from its braid.

Were the kisses you wanted to your liking? he might tease if he were another man, one with an ease with words. Instead he offers to escort her back towards her rooms and takes his leave of her for the day, and then sits in his small council trying not to remember how her body felt against his.

 

*

 

Now that he has kissed her, Stannis seems unable to stop, and her lips feel permanently swollen, her cheeks flushed, her emotions giddy. They meet in the King's Courtyard at dawn and kiss; they hawk in the forests and he helps her down from her horse with his hands on her hips, takes her hand, steals kisses from her behind trees while the kingsguard pointedly look the other way; he touches her waist in the library, brushes his lips against her neck, strokes a finger down her cheek; he takes her on winding tours of the keep, ostensibly to teach her more about its running and yet he is always finding quiet corners and new forgotten rooms in which to duck inside and kiss her.

By the time the plans for their wedding are almost finished, she feels almost feverish with want, as if she will surely burst into flames when they finally share a bed together. And yet, when she enters the sept wearing a lavish dress like the one she had always dreamed of, with a long train, and large bell sleeves that droop to the ground with delicate lace and pearls decorating its fabric, when she sees the candles lit and the light streaming through the coloured glass and feels the hushed and holy atmosphere press against her, her lust clears for a moment and she recognises the solemnity of the occasion, that she is marrying the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Stannis stands stern, the crown on his head throwing shadows across his cheeks, his eyes blazing at her as she reaches him and stands beside him. The ceremony feels like a hazy dream and soon enough it is time to proceed to the great hall for her coronation before the feast itself. She has not seen the crown she will wear, but when it is brought out on a pillow before the royal couple, as the crowd packed into the hall wait with bated breath, she sees that there are falcon wings intertwined with the antler decorations, and blue gems alongside the yellow gold. It is heavy when it is placed on her head but she holds her head up firmly, feels the weight of the court looking at her, the gaze of her father and brother who have come to see her crowned, Tully and Arryn ancestors watching her from the past.

The feast is formal and not like the raucous wedding feasts she once imagined, but she finds that she does not mind with Stannis sitting beside her, with the feeling of his ring on her finger as she drinks a few sips of wine and eats sparingly from the plate between them. They share but one dance as the hall watches eagerly and the musicians strain to coax the sweetest sounds from their instruments. His hand is tight on her waist, his eyes dark and she finds it hard to catch her breath and feels her heart continue to race when they have sat down again.

The king decrees that there is to be no traditional bedding, to the disappointment of many, instead the men and women of the court accompany them individually to the king's bedchambers without touching either of their clothes, though with the usual bawdy songs and gestures, calls for good luck and for a prince or princess to be sired this night.

She reaches the bedchamber before the king and waits, uncertain if she should begin to undress, staring at his great bed and its mound of furs, the rich velvet curtains. It is not a plain cell, like some might have imagined for such a frugal king, there are soft furnishings, rich tapestries and golden candlesticks, coloured glass in the window. It is just like his heart, she thinks fancifully, rich and hidden away.

When he enters, he bolts the door behind him, the sounds of the court trailing away. They look at each other, chests heaving and glance towards the bed.

"Will you help me undress, Stannis?" she asks, voice soft.

He nods and draws closer and she turns her back to him. Each lace loosened makes her breath shudder, her belly tremble. She feels almost overwhelmed already as he pushes her dress down to the floor and she steps out. She turns towards him and begins to unpick her hair.

"May I?" he murmurs, and his hands reach to help her, running his fingers through the fall of her hair. Once her hair is free, she brings her nervous fingers to the buttons of his surcoat and jerkin. His body is so firm against her hands, he is so tall when she glances up to see him watching her intently.

She lies down on the bed in her flimsy shift once she is done, watching as he removes his breeches and stockings, his own shift, and all the while his gaze does not look away from her. He steps towards her and then kneels, taking one of her feet in his hands, kissing it and then reaching up to peel down each stocking, palms brushing against her legs. He fingers the bottom of her shift and lifts it slowly upwards, lips kissing the skin that is revealed, the sensation making her gasp with want and her head fall back to the bed. Then she is naked before him, shivering as his eyes burn with hunger but she does not draw her hands up to hide herself like she once did so many years ago in a different bedroom in front of the king.

Is he thinking of the same evening, of the strangeness of that first encounter too? She does not have the breath to ask him as he removes his smallclothes, as his body covers hers and his hand slips between her thighs into the slick that seeps from her, making space for himself with his fingers. When he moves to take her he groans like he is in pain, then whispers her name as he stares at her, brings a hand up to stroke her cheek before he kisses her ravenously and begins to thrust, grunting in response to the moans she cannot help but release as she clutches at his back and widens her legs around his hips, opening herself to him.

She peaks before he spends, his pelvis rubbing her just where she needs, and it seems to inflame him, he finishes with a groan of agony, thrusting deep and holding himself inside of her, tarrying before he pulls back and falls onto his side. He tugs her body towards him as if he cannot bear to part from her and she hides her face in his chest, a few tears leaking from her eyes from the emotion of the day.

He moves a large hand to the back of her head and tilts her face up towards him, kisses her forehead, his breath laboured, and then her cheek, her nose, the other cheek, and then, when she smiles and closes her eyes, her eyelids, her mouth.

She will never tell anyone else of the tender romance hidden behind his brusque exterior, she thinks as she drifts to sleep in his arms, she shall hoard it just for herself.

He takes her again the next morning and she feels pleasantly sore in the aftermath, well loved and languid, and he appears reluctant to leave her when he is called away for his council meeting.

Sansa spends the first few moons of their marriage drifting dreamily through the days, cheeks colouring often, biting her lips and sighing, wishing the hours should move faster so that the evening and its pleasures might rush towards them sooner.

It is odd, she thinks sometimes, that she must thank her foolish mother for this turn of events. But Lysa had been a girl who loved songs once, not just a cruel schemer, and the young girl who still lives inside of her mother would sigh longingly at a tale like Sansa's, of a girl who was saved by a king and won his noble heart.

 

*

 

Stannis tries to get angry at the comments he overhears about how marriage has improved his mood and manner, but it is half-hearted since he cannot help but agree.

Laying with Sansa is almost overwhelming, the feeling of her body welcoming him in, how he loses all sense of time when he is with her, holding her, kissing her. He feels a young man again in her arms, hungry and wild.

His heart catches with tenderness when he wakes before her and watches her sleep, and he feels a pleasant calm when they spend certain hours of the day together studying scrolls, making judgements, discussing the contents of books from the library, walking in the gardens or venturing out to the forest. He feels...content, pleased, even as the responsibilities of kingship keep him away from their bed more often than he should like, and members of the court continue to disappoint him with their weaknesses and foibles.

Sansa is just as good a queen as he believed she would be, and a better wife than he deserves, he thinks sometimes, and he strives to be a worthy husband to her, to love her and honour her, to protect her.

Sansa evidently seeks to prove wrong those who had grumbled that Stannis spent too many years unmarried, by providing him with three children in the first two years of their marriage - a twin boy and girl, and then another boy – all with the Baratheon look, the blue eyes and black hair but also, he thinks, with their mother's sweet smile. Seemingly suddenly the royal rooms at the keep are busy with tiny running feet, with laughter and cries and song, with faces that beam at him when he appears in their midst. _Happy_ , yes, he might just describe himself thus.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to know what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/167113593132/when-widower-king-stannis-baratheon-finds-a)


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